


Nothing Else Will Do

by remiges



Series: Slow Pony Home [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 18:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11110272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: "You're trying to tell me that you aren't expecting sex?" Sid asks."Well, yeah," Claude says, leaning back against the headboard. "Did you really think it was mandatory? Sid, it's just superstition. The hockey gods aren't going to punish you if you don't."





	Nothing Else Will Do

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3790.html?thread=4805838#cmt4805838) at the Sin Bin. Title from [Gotta Have You by The Weepies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s830CSutPoE).

Sid should have known it would be his name. They've just lost 1-4, a defeat made sharper by the home advantage, and he should have known.

He's gone as tribute to the winner's room countless times, and it's not that he thinks anything terrible is going to happen. There are the rules to think of, for one thing, and he knows Claude. At the beginning of their association maybe the thought would have crossed his mind, but not now. Even at the height of their rivalry, he remembers how Claude had never put him in any kind of danger when he ended up as tribute. That's just the kind of captain he is.

Of course, it's different now. The last time he'd seen Claude off the ice, they'd had a screaming fight that ended with Sid slamming the front door of Claude's house so hard he'd thought the glass pane might crack. This is personal in a way that hockey isn't.

It's rare that there's any damage—rarer still that it prevents people from playing—but it happens. It's bad luck to injure the tribute, but the hockey gods are nothing if not demanding—loyalty and blood and sweat and tears and semen.

Tonight, Sid doesn't know what's waiting for him.

There's always the option to bring in a spotter, someone who can keep things from getting out of control, but most of the guys don't use them. Sometimes what happens in the room is better left alone, tucked into a corner and forgotten about, and anyways, things don't usually get violent. Usually. He remembers Dubinsky and the time with the knives, the first-timer who hid his nerves with cruelty, but those are outliers. For the most part, everyone knows what the limits are. When they're the ones up as tribute, nobody wants to have pissed off the player choosing them.

All of that still doesn't explain why Sid is still in the shower, though, water on full blast, the heat soaking through his skin. It's not nerves, he tells himself as he tries to work a kink out of his back. At least, he isn't nervous about the sex. It's everything else that's waiting for him in that room that's giving him pause. He could refuse, of course, but nobody ever does. He has to face this, whatever the outcome.

Sid turns off the water and heads into the changing room, dries off and puts on the ceremonial white robe. There's not a mirror, but Sid slicks his hair down self-consciously, adjusts the ties on the robe so they're hanging at the same length, and squares his shoulders. He takes a couple of breaths to fortify himself, then pushes the door open and walks down the hall to the winner's room.

It's always quieter than Sid expects inside, and he feels some of the tension release at the familiar atmosphere. The room is white and stark, sterile and impersonal. There's a wide bed with a sturdy iron frame that takes up most of the space, and a nightstand next to it.

Claude is lying on the bed, facing away from the door, and Sid feels a visceral surge of something sharp and bitter at the sight, that he's lounging around waiting for Sid, like Sid hasn't been gearing up for this confrontation for the last half hour. He rounds the bed, intent on giving Claude a piece of his mind, and already has his mouth open to say something cutting when he sees Claude's eyes are shut, his mouth slightly open.

He's asleep, Sid realizes with a pang.

He pauses there at the edge of the bed and looks at the circles under Claude's eyes, the bruise he can see on the edge of his thigh where the robe doesn't quite hang down far enough, the way his fingers are curled up at the corner of the mattress. And then he walks out of the room, making sure the door clicks loudly, walks down the hall to the changing room and lets the door slam behind him. For good measure, he knocks into the rack holding the robes and listens to it rattle against the wall.

Sid waits for a couple of minutes, still not quite believing he gave up that advantage so easily. If Claude wants to drag their fight out then Sid can't do anything to stop him, but he could have used the initial power differential to… do something, he's not sure what. If this were a couple of years ago, Sid would have taken the chance without thinking. He would have kicked the bed just to see Claude jump, make him acknowledge that his control was just temporary. But somewhere in between the rivalry and the fights and the not-quite dates and the hatefucking that turned into something more, Giroux turned into Claude, and Sid _cares_ about Claude. More than he knows how to process, sometimes.

Sid knocks into the clothes rack again and waits until the robes stop swaying. Then, sighing, he heads back to the winner's room.

Claude's sitting in the middle of the bed when Sid enters this time. Except for the crease imprinted on his cheek, there's no indication he'd been taking a nap on top of the covers.

"Crosby," Claude says, and the use of his last name is an unexpected hurt. Sid opens his mouth to snap something cutting, but that's what got them in this mess in the first place.

"Claude," he says after a pause that goes on for just a minute too long, but he sees Claude's shoulders come down slightly.

It's awkward, the weight of their last fight hanging in the room without the ice to distract them, but Sid meets Claude's gaze and crosses the room without hesitation. He's not wimping out on this, no matter what Claude wants from him.

"Where do you want me," he asks, reaching for the tie on his robe, and Claude's eyes widen.

"Sid, what the fuck," he says, and Sid stops.

"What?"

Claude gestures inelegantly. "Keep your clothes on, asshole."

There's a pause.

"You're trying to tell me that you aren't expecting sex?" Sid asks.

"Well, yeah," Claude says, leaning back against the headboard. "Did you really think it was mandatory? Sid, it's just superstition. The hockey gods aren't going to punish you if you don't."

Sid doesn't say anything, but his skin feels oddly tight. He crosses the last few steps to the bed and perches on the edge, tugging the robe tighter as he does.

"I'm not that kind of asshole. I just…" Claude trails off here, runs a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to talk. Oh," he says, like he'd forgotten about something. "Here."

He reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a cardboard box, the same one the fancy blender Sid had gotten him for Christmas came in. "I thought you might want this," Claude says, dropping it on the bed.

Sid opens the flaps, and he swears his heart stops beating for a second. Inside, nestled in layers of bubble wrap, is the domestic idol he'd given Claude a few months ago. It was Sid's more than Claude's, and he was the one who touched it up and made small sacrifices every time he was there, but he'd given it to Claude to keep his house safe from minor curses and negativity.

"Claude," he says, trying to conceal his panic, jerking his gaze from the golden sheen of the idol and twisting towards him.

"Don't look at me like that," Claude says, scowling. "I'm not breaking up with you. You just seemed really bent out of shape about it," and Sid remembers that fight, knows exactly what he's talking about.

It had begun when Claude knocked one of Sid's favorite mugs off the counter and broke it. From there the fight had morphed from jibes about Claude's dexterity and Sid's superstitions, to a screaming match about how Claude couldn't be responsible for anything, including Sid's idol, and that Sid cared more about made-up rules than the people around him.

That had been a couple of days ago, and Sid had tried nursing the grudge as their game approached, but his anger was hard to hold onto, slipped out of his fingers when he had space to think about what he'd said and how much he'd really meant it.

Sid touches the forehead of the idol, closes the flaps and sets it gently back on the nightstand. It's only when he turns back to Claude and sees the badly guarded wariness in his eyes that he realizes he hasn't said anything in response.

Claude had brought him his idol even though they weren't talking and Claude didn't really believe in the gods, anyway. He'd said some hurtful things, but so had Sid. It's not like either of them were blameless.

Claude's still got crease marks from where his cheek had been pressed into the sheets, and his hair is a mess, and he's sitting on the bed waiting for Sid to say something, pick up their fight or start trying to put the pieces back together, and Sid is so gone on him. He leans forward and kisses him, and Claude opens, doesn’t turn away. Sid tangles his fingers in Claude's hair, and Claude makes a sound like someone hit him. He reaches out to drag Sid closer.

Then he says, "No, I don't…"

Sid pulls back, but Claude's still holding on to the front of his robe, fisting the material, so he doesn't get very far. Claude's other hand is curled around Sid's shoulder, like he can hold him in place even as he's pushing him away.

"I don't, not because you think you have to. I just—"

Sid rests his palm on the side of Claude's cheek, curves his fingers along his cheekbone and feels the scratch of his beard against his palm. Claude stops talking.

"Claude," Sid says, and even he can tell he sounds inordinately fond. "Don't be an idiot." He kisses him them, rubs his nose against Claude's as Claude sucks in a sharp breath.

"We still have to talk," Claude says against Sid's skin, but he's already fumbling the tie on Sid's robe, and Sid nods. They're doing this all backwards, the make-up sex before they've actually made-up, but they will, they _will_ , just not right now.

Claude slides a hand up his thigh, and Sid shivers. The room is chilly, but even in the sanctity of his own head he can't convince himself that's the reason.

"Later," Sid gasps, and then it's all tongues and teeth and Claude sliding the robe off Sid's shoulders.

"What do you want," Claude murmurs as he kisses the side of Sid's neck, and Sid turns to him, desperate. What he wants is to go back in time and take back what he said, go back to how it was. He's not ready for the press of Claude's body, heavy and comforting, to leave.

"You," he says, "you," like he's in a romance novel, but it's the truth. Claude doesn't seem to mind how cheesy it is, and he pushes Sid onto his back. Sid hits the bed and bounces slightly, and Claude straddles him. Their hands tangle as they try to get Claude's robe off at the same time, but then there's nothing between them, Claude's dick sliding against Sid's hip as Sid groans.

It's supposed to be difficult to give up control, to let someone else call the shots. That's what the winner's room is all about, really—making sure no one gets too cocky, that they remember their performance on the rink doesn't elevate them to a status above the gods.

Losing control has never been something that Sid has been very good at, if he's being honest with himself, but with Claude hovering over him, the heat of his body pressed against Sid's front, Sid has no idea how this could ever count as difficult.

They kiss for what feels like an eternity, Sid running his hands down Claude's arms, across his back, feeling his muscles shift as they move languidly against each other. And then Claude bites his neck and it's like some switch gets flipped, and then they aren't going slow anymore. Sid is boiling with it, drowning in the feel of Claude over him, their bodies sliding together, the scent of his skin. He needs more, desperate with it.

"Lube's in the drawer," Claude pants, and Sid nips his ear just to hear him groan. He flips them, gives Claude enough warning to stop him if he wants to, and then he's scrabbling around in the nightstand, jarring the box on top. He fumbles blindly with the lube until the cap pops off, squeezes too hard and ends up with it all over the sheet by the time he gets his fingers coated. Claude lets his thighs splay open, and his eyes are dark and burning when they catch Sid's.

"Anytime this year," he says, and Sid doesn't make him wait.

He gets a finger in, and Claude's lips part. Sid noses under his jaw until he can catch the scent of his skin, and Claude grabs him like he's a lifeline.

"More," he says, probably too soon, but Sid obliges. Claude's back arches, and he crams himself down further on Sid's fingers. He's sweaty and blotchy and his hair is a mess, and Sid thinks the deep pink of his mouth as he gasps is going to haunt him until the day he dies.

Claude starts making sharp, almost hurt noises, and Sid pauses.

"Fuck you, I swear to fuck, if you stop now—" Claude grits out, reaching down and gripping Sid's wrist to keep him from pulling his fingers out.

"Fine," Sid says, kissing Claude to shut him up, and Claude lets him pull back for more lube. Sid covers him with his body and just keeps kissing him as he opens him up.

By the time Claude is ready, he's sucking on Sid's tongue like he's got something to prove, and Sid is so turned on he fumbles the condom. Claude starts swearing at him again when he has to scrabble through the sheets to figure out where it went.

"C'mon, c'mon," he says, pulling Sid towards him, and he rolls the condom on Sid. Then Sid's slotted between his thighs and pushing in, and Claude finally goes silent, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes scrunched tight. He looks a bit like a moron like this, more than a bit beautiful, like everything Sid's been missing out on because he's too stupid to pull his head out of his ass.

Sid thinks he might have been an idiot. Thinks he might be a bit in love.

"Move," Claude hisses, kicking a heel into Sid's flank, and Sid does.

He sets a fast rhythm, hard enough that the bed squeaks on every thrust, and Claude's fingers scrabble at his back. Sid can hear the pounding of his own pulse, and he buries his face in Claude's throat to hide whatever expression he's wearing. He's close already, the heat of Claude's body destroying his control, but he holds on. He's striping Claude's dick in a way that's probably verging on painful, but Claude doesn't tell him to stop, moves with him.

Then Claude's hand is in his hair, pulling his face up. He tightens around Sid, and Sid will deny as long as he lives the sound he makes into Claude's mouth as their teeth click together. It's only a kiss in the loosest sense, messy and uncoordinated, with Sid panting open-mouthed against Claude's lips, and Claude's mouth goes slack when he comes, hot and wet over Sid's fist.

Sid works him through it until he gasps, oversensitive, and then Sid pulls out. He's close, so close, and he take off the condom, jerks himself off frantically, and comes all over Claude's stomach. Sid collapses next to him, and then the only sound in the room is their heavy breathing, evening out until it's quiet again.

Sid props himself on an elbow, drags the sheet up from where they'd kicked it to the foot of the bed, and wipes Claude off as best he can. The sheet is pretty much a lost cause anyways, what with the spilled lube, so he pulls the corners out from where they'd been tucked under the mattress and tosses it on the floor.

"Hey," Claude says, voice rough, "I was going to use that."

"What, are you cold?" Sid asks, incredulous, and Claude flails a hand out and smacks him.

"Shut up," he grumbles, and Sid takes a moment to lean over the side of the bed and pick up the robe he'd been wearing before.

Claude hates comforters, especially the one in the winner's room—something about all the other people who've had their turn on the bed. Sid has pointed out that it's the same in hotel rooms, that they spend most of their lives bouncing between beds that aren't their own, but somehow this is different.

Sid unfurls the robe over him and starts tucking it around Claude automatically—like he's a child or something, god—and Claude curls a strand of Sid's hair around his finger, tugs gently. His eyes are solemn, looking up at Sid, and he squints a little. Sid knows the overhead light is too bright, but he can't bring himself to pull away and turn it off.

Claude's hair is a mess, flattened on the side from where he'd been sleeping on it when Sid walked in, and his tooth is out, and he's too pale against the white sheets, and Sid _aches_.

"I'm sorry," Sid says suddenly.

Claude looks surprised, a little guarded as well, and he drops his hand. Sid wants to reach out but doesn't. Even though they'd just been wrapped up in each other, this somehow feels more intimate.

"I know," Claude says after a pause. His eyes flick over to the nightstand, to the box with the idol inside. Sid doesn't think he realizes what he's revealing when he does it.

"No, I shouldn't have said what I did. It was hurtful and I didn't mean it and I'm sorry."

"Don't go getting all maudlin on me," Claude says, but then he sighs. "Me too."

Sid feels like there's something else he should say, but Claude looks exhausted, and this isn't a conversation they should be having here, in this sterile in-between place. Sid thinks he can get Claude to come home with him, and they'll shower, sit on the back porch and watch the storms that are supposed to roll in, drink a beer or two. He'll put Claude to bed, and in the morning they'll sit down and talk, and this time, this time they'll get it right.

Claude puts the robe on after a minute of companionable silence, gets off the bed and stretches. Sid looks around for the other robe and finally finds it crumpled in the comforter, the white terrycloth blending in with the bed. Claude's laughing silently at him, eyes crinkled, having watched Sid's search without helping.

"Useless," Sid grumbles, swatting at him, and Claude snickers. He turns towards the door, but Sid stops him. "Hey," he says, gesturing at the box. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"It's your idol," Claude says, looking unimpressed, and Sid feels inordinately fond of him.

"No, not really," he says, the words falling easily out of his mouth.

Claude walks back to the nightstand, and Sid takes a step closer. He wraps his fingers around Claude's, and Claude smiles slightly, this bright quirk of his mouth, and rolls his eyes when he realizes Sid is watching him. He bumps their shoulders together too hard and huffs.

"Always making my life harder," he says, perching the box on his hip, but he squeezes Sid's hand and doesn't let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/)


End file.
